


The Way Things Have Become

by pippen2112



Series: The Way Things Go [4]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Awesome Evan Lorne, Bondage, Dom Evan Lorne, Emotional Hurt, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Major Character Death: Cameron Mitchell, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sub John Sheppard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once is a fluke. Twice is a coincidence. Three times, and you're being an idiot.</p><p>Warning for offscreen/implied rape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way Things Have Become

**Author's Note:**

> This fic/series came about because my mind likes to do horrible things to John Sheppard, and because not enough bad things have happened to him yet.
> 
> Please heed the warnings; it's only gonna get darker from here. If I missed anything, please let me know ASAP and I'll add the tags.

The Way Things Have Become

 

The first time he wakes up slick and sore, John puts it out of his mind. Because, disgusted as he is to admit it, the male body wasn't exactly designed to facilitate penetrative sex. And, high on endorphins and a far-flung fantasy, he was more focused on feeling something up his ass than how he got that something there.

 

The second time, a few weeks later when he finds a spray of odd bruises along his shoulders and hips, John thinks he needs to scale back on his sparring sessions with Ronon. It's gotta be one big fucking coincidence, right?

 

The third time, a couple days after that, when walking feels like knives slashing down his thighs, John vomits and decides he's sleeping too much.

 

Once is a fluke. Twice is a coincidence. Three times, and you're being a fucking idiot.

 

So, John changes things up. He takes to socializing with the off-shift crowd in the rec room until the early hours of the morning. He starts hauling mission reports to the mess and works them while drinking the god-awful Athosian coffee that taste more like pinto beans. He haunts Rodney and Zelenka's labs and volunteers for light switch duty. And for all his efforts, he's rewarded with blurry-edged mornings and extra-careful movements when he's stretching for his runs with Ronon and gaping holes of when exactly he made it back to his quarters the previous night.

 

Once, at the end of a session with Dr. Powell, John feels compelled to ask if it's possible to develop partial amnesia. She gives him a strange look, part concerned, part curious, and asks in her simply stated commands if he's experiencing amnesia. For about ten seconds, John feels the words slam around his stomach, struggling to get out, but he swallows them into submission and rattles off some excuse about a reference in the database to some project Rodney's been working on. Dr. Powell gives him a hard look, the kind that cuts straight through him, picking for the truth, but she doesn't press the matter. If John invents a week's worth of excuses to pass out in Rodney's or Ronon's rooms just to recoup and regain his sense of control, it's no one's business but his own.

 

For a few weeks, it's enough, until he comes to in one of the deserted sections of the city, his jaw sore, his clothes nowhere in sight, and his penis adorned by a flashy piece of metal that hurts to remove.

 

He goes off world more, taking longer missions. He tells his team and Carter he's been missing the fresh air, but really, for the first time since the expedition began, the city's making him feel claustrophobic. Even when he's running from wildlife, or Wraith, or angry villagers, at least out here he knows where the danger is. He knows who to guard against.

 

Unfortunately, Rodney doesn't see it that way.

 

"Seriously, Sheppard? Another mission? That's six in the last four weeks," Rodney says when John tells him to gear up. John nearly flinches at the strength of Rodney's response. "I can't just go traipsing off across the galaxy every other day. I have systems to maintain and projects that need my attention."

 

John swallows and crosses his arms. "You're part of my team, McKay."

 

"And I'm sick of being bitten to death by Pegasus's version of mosquitos and trudging through torrential downpours," Rodney replies, stepping forward into John's space. "What has gotten into you, Sheppard? You haven't pushed us this hard since we got here."

 

For a moment, John is trapped in the wave of dominance Rodney gives off. The baser parts of his dynamic make him yearn to kneel. John locks his knees and stiffens his spine. He's never let his dynamic interfere with his professional life, and he's not about to give up his last remnants of control.

 

Luckily, John's saved from forming a sad little excuse when Teyla places her hands on both his and Rodney's chests and forces them apart. She steps between them, her voice low and calming, her neutral pheromones clearing the air between them.

 

"Perhaps if we all stand aside and reassess the schedule in the morning. I agree with you, John," she says, meeting Rodney's gaze. "He has put his trust in us when we are in Atlantis and off world. But, Rodney is also right." Now, she turns to John and holds his attention. "You have pushed us hard in the last weeks, and tensions are high. We could all use a break."

 

John fights the urge to duck his head and hide his gaze. Over her shoulder, he sees Rodney look quickly at him before looking away, Rodney's expression drooping almost guiltily. Behind him, Ronon watches, his posture on edge and ready to intervene if Teyla's presence is not enough. John feels it all like a punch in the gut. How do you explain to the people who matter most to you when you've lost all sense of security in your own home?

 

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "Okay," he says, resignedly, "I'll tell Carter we're postponing the mission. We'll talk."

 

Teyla nods, the tension sliding off her shoulders. Rodney looks up, like he wants to say something, but Teyla turns and leads him off down the corridor. John feels his posture start to deflate, his head feeling heavy and light at the same time and his hands hanging limply at his sides. He nearly slumps back against the wall when strong hands catch him under his arms.

 

"Easy, Sheppard," Ronon says calmly, his face pinched with concern. "You don't look so good."

 

"Nothing I can't handle," John answers even though he can't hold his own weight.

 

Ronon gives him a quick once over and quirks a brow. "When was the last time someone put you down?"

 

"That's a nonissue." The real answer is too fucking long ago, but John's not about to admit that.

 

"You sure about that?"

 

John looks up to see doubt darkening Ronon's gaze. Of course, Ronon's not buying his load of bullshit. Ronon spent years on the run. He's good at reading people and situations and digging into the heart of things. Usually, John's envious of Ronon's little party trick, but right now, it's just damn annoying. "Sure enough."

 

Ronon's quiet as he helps John back to his quarters. When the door's slid open and John takes a few steps inside, Ronon says, "I know it's not the same, but if you ever need help..."

 

The end of that sentence lingers in the air between them. John forces his mind not to go to that strange place in his head where all those what-if's reside. What if he and Cam had never happened? What if he'd been born neutral? What if he'd said no to the expedition? What if Ronon hadn't been a sub like him? He's given that last one a little more thought than he's any right to. He looks over his shoulder at Ronon's open posture and imagines what it'd be like, kneeling for another sub, all the social cues in place without the bone-deep, biological compulsion to obey. It makes him dizzy and nauseous to consider.

 

"Goodnight, Ronon," he says as he sinks onto his bed and unlaces his combat boots.

 

"See you in the morning," Ronon answers, sounding the same as ever.

 

Sometimes John hates how he can't get a read on his friend.

 

#

 

He's cold and his vision is wonky. There's something soft and cool under his cheek and his back aches from the strange position. His arms are at his sides, and when he moves his fingers, the skin near his knees is tickled. John tries to ease the ache in his lower spine by straightening out, but pain flares around his wrists and something cuts into the back of his thighs when he moves. On his front. Hands cuffed. Ass up. His stomach swirls and his cock pokes his abs leaving a string of precum behind. Then he notices how cold the air feels on his penis and his asshole, and he hears the door slide open and an audible gasp, and a pulse of fear rockets through him.

 

He wants to move and see his attacker, but he can't move more than reflexive twitches. His breath speeds up and he gapes into the darkness. He's not sure if he should beg for mercy or for the unknown person to get it over with quickly.

 

Muffled footsteps cross the room. Calloused fingertips at his pulse point. A warm, familiar scent.

 

"Colonel... John... what's going on?"

 

Lorne. Evan fucking Lorne. John closes his eyes. He wants the mattress to open up and swallow him. He wants to tilt his hips back and present. He wants to hump the mattress until he finds enough friction to come. He wants to punch someone in the face. Lorne's lucky his hands are cuffed because the latter just might win out.

 

He hears Lorne walk around the bed and then feels a warm hand on his neck. "John, look at me."

 

John does. Lorne's gaze is affectionate and lustful for all of three seconds before he shifts and takes his John's wide eyes. He doesn't move his hand from John's neck, but it's suddenly firmer, connecting him to the world behind his swarming, murky perceptions.

 

With his other hand, Lorne digs into his pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. "John, did you send me this?"

 

Even though it's dark and his vision is blurry, John can make out a short message. A time. An infrequently used storage space. His name. Come alone. He feels his heart beat faster. He wants to roll away and put more distance between them. He wants to nod his head and go along for the ride. But he can't do more thank blink.

 

Lorne sees John's shock and shifts away. His posture stiffens and he keeps his gaze oh John's. John's never felt more transparent or more vulnerable.

 

"Do you...." He swallows and stares down at the sheets before looking up. "Do you want this?"

 

John twitches with a flood of arousal, and an animalistic sound vibrates in his throat. He flushes and tries to hide his face, but Lorne's hand stays firm.

 

"Don't," Lorne says, firm and desperate and as full of conflicted want as John is. "John, I can't help if you look away. You're hard enough to read when you're actually talking."

 

John's breathing gets faster. He can't get enough air with this much happening. Lorne's fingers sink into his hair, massaging his scalp and keeping him present.

 

"Do you know where you are, John? Blink once for yes, twice for no."

 

John blinks twice.

 

"Do you remember how you got here?"

 

He blinks twice.

 

"Is this the first time something like this has happened?"

 

John wishes he could run away. Find a nice hole and hide until everyone he knows has forgotten him. Flushed with humiliation and arousal, he blinks twice and hides his face.

 

Luckily, Lorne doesn't prod him for more answers. Instead, Lorne starts saying a bunch of quick words John can't quite make out and moving around the room. He unclips John's wrists, eases him down onto his front and gently drapes a blanket over him. Then Lorne sits down across the room within John's eye line and waits until a flurry of footsteps and urgent voices come and take John away.

%MCEPASTEBIN%

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any question, comments, or suggestions are welcome! Comments make the writing happen faster.


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